Love Stretch Up
by kimmiesjoy
Summary: He looks around the room, noticing how everything is bathed in soft light that has until now gone unnoticed, suddenly it makes so much more sense.


**AlwaysHappier showed me a sketch her friend Ally Haratay had created called 'Love stretch up." Because (and I quote) it "gives me Caskett feels." The image that goes with this fic is part of that sketch. It's beautiful and inspiring and I thank her for letting me use it :D**

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**"Love stretch up."**

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He's world weary and soaked to the skin when he finally pulls the key from the lock and lets the door thud behind him. The inner warmth of his home echoes back to him, the familiar smells and the sense of peace that he has been missing, he finds them all here.

He's home.

At last.

The relief floods through him instantaneously, like he can finally breathe again, breathe deeply and fully. Like he can relax and be himself, just exist in the silence...God how he missed the silence.

He shuts his eyes, drops his bags, thumbs the lock and just _rests_ against the door. His head rolls back to land on the wood, harder than he means and he groans softly. Trickles of water still running down his neck, his skin cold and his eyes gritty from lack of sleep.

He's back finally and the weekend can stretch out long and gloriously freeing in front of him. He sighs, a herculean effort of body and mind before he kicks off his shoes. He drops the short distance between shoed feet and socks, squelching in the wool and he groans, his socks are wet too.

He yanks the sodden material free of his feet, tumbles them into a ball and lobs them across the room, not caring where they land or if he will ever see them again. The wood is warm beneath his bare feet and it feels good, so he closes his eyes.

His stomach growls, feral beasts awakening in his stomach and he should eat, the last thing he had was on the plane and his mouth still feels slightly _wrong_. He's hungry and grouchy and tired, he should eat.

He also knows he should shower and crawl into bed with no plan to come out until Monday But it's been a week and he really really wants to see her. Forgo sleep and food and comfort in general, change his clothes and head back out, land on her doorstep in the middle of the night, a disheveled mess and just_ breathe_ her in.

His body relaxes back and his mind becomes a whirlwind of images, scents of her skin and the warmth of her fingers, he can feel himself drifting. Weightless almost against the door as the urge to sleep starts to wash over him, he could so easily fall...

Nope. He shakes his head to keep himself upright.

No sleeping, he wants to see her.

He needs a plan, a...a focus so he doesn't drift off against the door. He's dead on his feet and he needs to wake up. He needs a shower, clean clothes, shoes and a cab.

Oh, thats a plan, and it works, it's not comprehensive or diabolical but it's enough.

His lids lift slowly, mustering what little energy still lingers, an immense effort to just tug his body upright and he sways on the spot.

Then his eyes snap open, somethings different, he can feel the soft slide of observation over his skin, the knowledge that somewhere close by someone is watching him.

His brow furrows, fists tensing at his side, the prickle of awareness that raises the hairs, lifts them from the roots and gives him this low tingle that -

_Kate_.

His entire body oozes free of tension because somewhere in his home Kate is already waiting for him. He doesn't need to trek back out into the unforgiving rain and blistering wind, she's already here.

He looks around the room, noticing how everything is bathed in soft light that has until now gone unnoticed, suddenly it makes so much more sense.

The gentle hiss and click of the fire, the muted candle light, all of it Kate. And, though his skin may be freezing cold, he feels instantly warmed by the knowledge that she has let her self in and made herself at home.

She has made his home a welcoming haven for his return.

He hears his name rumble past her lips, and she sounds just muddled enough that he realizes she was nearly asleep and he disturbed her.

A soft smudge of brown appears at one end of his sofa, her hair in a sweep over one shoulder when she sits up and spots him. It takes a second for her eyes and her heart and her mind to comprehend the truth that lays before her, that he is really and truly here.

Home at last.

Her fingers lift to cover her mouth, touch at the swell of her bottom lip before they fall away. She smiles at the sight of him just as his lips lift with relief in seeing her, the easy and simple joy of being together set alight in the flicker and flame of candles and fire.

He takes her in all over again every time they reunite, forcing himself to reexamine every nuance of the woman he loves. But this time watching her, like a cat when she rises, her eyes brilliant and dancing, her mouth wide with happiness, he's too tired to do anything but stare.

He can't solve another fraction of the mystery that meanders towards him, beautiful and leonine, shining with feminine grace, his sleep addled mind ridiculously poetic.

He doesn't have the energy to peel another layer when her long legs are exposed, unfurling from the pillows surrounding her, and he refuses to let his curiosity reawaken and analyse her _bare feet _ hitting his wooden floors with a soft thud.

He remains still and silent, her name entwined with his tongue and held captive in his mouth until she's close enough that he can breathe it into her skin.

Her arms stretch high above her head and she arches her back before she moves towards him, his white shirt and the flicker of the fire making her body an exquisite silhouette. Soft curves and familiar lines that quiver in the bouncing glow, calling to his fingers.

She rolls her shoulders letting the remnants of sleep drain out of her bones, seeping into the warm, loving, atmosphere she created. Waiting for him.

She pads towards him and his arms sag, his jacket sliding to the floor in a wet heap. The weight and worry falling away, running down his arms and dripping from his fingertips like the droplets of rain that trickle over his skin.

She's here.

Her thumb traces the darkness under his eyes, her breath touches his face and she's finally in his arms. Fitting herself against his body, her hand over his heart, her nose at his jaw and her arms wrapping tight around him. Warm everywhere and her face sleepy, soft and pink.

She doesn't care that he's wet from the rain and he ignores the careful shiver that erupts between them when his cold fingers wrap around her waist, fingertips glancing her thigh. It doesn't matter that her shirt will be soaked through in seconds or that he's still too tired to do anything about it.

They've been apart long enough.

But he's home now and she's here, smiling and warm. She let herself in and fell asleep waiting for him, barefoot, wearing one of his shirts and draped over his couch.

She was waiting for _him_.

Her palm curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him down as she steps in breathing deeply, the back of her throat vibrating with appreciation. He smells like rain and love and their first night here, kissing, with her back against his door.

She rises up onto the balls of her feet, a simple stretch of love that takes no effort whatsoever, "I missed you," She hums, her lips trailing the travel-stubble at the edge of his jaw before she kisses him, "Welcome home."


End file.
